


Agony in the Garden State

by tess_genor



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Choking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Addiction, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Necrophilia, Rape, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Stabbing, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:07:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24813559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tess_genor/pseuds/tess_genor
Summary: Canon divergence set after episode 10, John takes Malcolm to the cabin in New Jersey. John tries to break Malcolm down to the point where he will become a killer like his father, but instead ends up killing Malcolm. Aka the fic where I brutally murder Malcolm and make everyone else, including the reader, deal with the emotional fallout.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright/Paul Lazar | John Watkins
Comments: 40
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to [sonshineandshowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers) for being my beta reader and helping me make sense of this. Could not have posted this without you.

The basement is quiet, save for the hum of the heating unit. Malcolm lays on the floor, too weak to do anything but stare blankly at the ceiling. He can hear the rush of water through pipes as John flushes the toilet upstairs and counts the seconds from start to stop. About two hundred seconds; John is brushing his teeth. It must be morning.

Malcolm takes a shaky breath and tries to mentally prepare himself for when John inevitably comes down those stairs. The two of them have fallen into a routine. Malcolm wakes with a start and pauses to listen to the sounds John makes above him in an attempt to guess what his captor is doing and what time of day it is. Sometimes, Malcolm screams to let John know he’s awake. On other days, like today, Malcolm waits for John to decide to visit him. Most mornings, John comes down with a cup of water and a granola bar if John thinks Malcolm’s progress is significant. Malcolm gave up asking for basic human necessities after the first week in. John may want to work with Malcolm, but that does not mean that John sees him as an equal. Malcolm is nothing more than a mission to John. A chance to prove the power that John has over the people he deems inferior or sinners. A disillusioned higher calling.

This morning feels different. When the lock to the basement unlatches, Malcolm attempts to sit up, to give some illusion that he isn’t broken, but he hasn’t eaten in a few days and his head spins once he lifts it from the ground. He falls onto his side, his head and hand hitting the ground with a flop. John chuckles.

”My, Malcolm, you should know better than to try to move around in your condition.” John sneers from above him. John tentatively stretches out a leg to poke at Malcolm with his foot, testing Malcolm’s reflexes and response to his touch. Malcolm doesn’t move. John notices and breaks into a delighted grin.

”We’re going to have some extra fun today. I’m going to take you from who you _think_ you are to who you were meant to be.”

“More fun than normal?” Amusement plays on Malcolm’s voice. “Must be my lucky day. I get to witness a killer change his MO in person. Very rare.”

“Go ahead, profile me. Hopefully by the time I’m done with you, you’ll have some respect for me.” Malcolm can hear the agitation in John’s voice. “I’m your predecessor. I’m clearing the path for you, Malcolm. I don’t want you to think you need to work against me. I’m just trying to help you.” John laughs and it sends a shiver down Malcolm’s spine. “I’m like John the Baptist, known by many, but truly just here to prepare the way for someone else. Someone greater than me.” He stands near Malcolm’s head.

“Me?” Malcolm looks up at John, who nods at him. “That analogy makes me out to be Jesus, then.”

“Very good.” John appreciates that Malcolm understands the reference .

“Life didn’t turn out very well for either John or Jesus; is that really how you want to end yours?” Malcolm attempts to talk to John, to reason with him in terms that he will understand and relate to.

“See, Malcolm, that’s where you’re missing the point.” John sighs and crouches down to meet Malcolm’s eyes, shadowing Malcolm from the lights. The lights cast a halo around John’s head and Malcolm wants to throw up at the thought. “They _had_ to suffer to reach their full potential. I have suffered. And now it’s your turn.”

”Haven’t I suffered enough?” Malcolm’s throat goes dry. “I lost my father, I’m plagued by a slew of mental illnesses, and now you’re holding me captive. Have I not suffered already?”

”Enough!” John stands and goes to his tool bag. He rummages around until his hands come into Malcolm’s view with a padlock. “That is your penance for betraying your father. You haven’t suffered.” He turns the padlock over in his hands. “Not yet.”

Malcolm struggles to keep his hands to his chest. The more slack he has in the chain, the better to fight against whatever John has planned. If Malcolm had something in his stomach, he could have fought back more, but he is too weak. He is exactly how John wants him. John unlocks the padlock and places the key back inside the bag.

John walks over to Malcolm, the toes of his boots tucked under Malcolm’s side. He looms over Malcolm and his blood runs cold. John picks up his leg and Malcolm flinches, waiting for the boot to connect with the center of his chest. Instead, John steps over Malcolm so that he has one leg on either side of his chest and kneels down. It’s nearly impossible for Malcolm to breathe with John resting all his weight on Malcolm’s chest. John reaches out, grabbing the chain joining Malcolm’s hands. His fingernails scratch at Malcolm’s shirt and gritty sound vibrates along the fabric. John slips the padlock through one of the links of the chain and then he reaches forward with the lock. Malcolm’s arms are pulled above his head, his hands clasped together like he is praying. John slips the arm of the lock through the ring on the floor and locks it in place. Malcolm is trapped.

Malcolm gives the chain a tug, testing his range of motion. The padlock keeps his arms above his head. He has a few inches of motion from side to side, but John has successfully found a way to keep him in place. John pulls Malcolm’s shirt down with one hand, exposing the skin at the top of Malcolm’s chest to the chilly air. His other hand takes the hunting knife from his belt. John looks at the knife fondly. It’s well taken care of. The brown handle shines as though its polished regularly and the blade itself catches light easily as John rotates the knife, admiring its beauty. Malcolm eyes the knife warily, the curved tip is threatening and the serrated edges promise a wound like no other.

”What are you doing?” Malcolm rattles the chains, trying to escape, though he knows he can’t. John has never gotten his hands dirty before. He may be evolving, but Malcolm never expected John to kill him in cold blood. “I thought--I thought you needed me alive?”

”Aw, Malcolm. You’re right, I _do_ need you.” John slides the edge of the knife under the first button on Malcolm's shirt and exhales when he cuts it open. The button skitters across the floor. Malcolm’s eyes fly open with a rush of fear, because he knows what’s about to happen.

”John, you don’t want to do this. Homosexuality is a sin!” Malcolm desperately tries to appeal to John, using anything he can to reach the man. “Man shall not lay with man, remember? If you do this, you’ll be damning yourself.”

”That’s so outdated, Malcolm. Do you really think the Lord cares who anyone loves? No.” Another button goes rolling against the cement. “Besides, the actual translation is ‘Man shall not lay with _boy_.’ It’s about pedophilia.”

Malcolm watches in horror as John removes the rest of his buttons. Each one falls off easily. John is skilled with the knife, undoubtably knowledge imparted from Martin. John pushes Malcolm’s shirt open and rubs Malcolm’s empty, flat stomach. John grabs the ends of the shirt, squeezing the fabric inside his fists. Malcolm feels the concrete on his back. It’s cold and rough just like the man above him. John continues pulling until the shirt is bunched around Malcolm’s wrists, muffling the sounds the chains make as Malcolm shakes beneath his captor. He doesn’t know if the tremor is the result of the coolness at his back or the terror grows with every passing second.

”John,” Malcolm’s voice trembles as much as his hands, “what is this going to do? This won’t make me trust you.”

”I don’t need you to trust me. I need you to let go of everyone out there.” John gestures to the stairs with the point of the knife. “They’re not coming to save you, Malcolm. No.” He shimmies backwards and pulls Malcolm’s pants and underwear with him. “The point of this,” John’s fingers ghost up Malcolm’s bare legs, “is to show you that rules don’t apply to you or me, to people like us. You want something? You take it. Malcolm, you are more powerful than you know and you have to use that power.”

”John, stop! Please! I don’t want to use that power.” Malcolm kicks out, but John’s hand locks around his ankle, cutting any movement short.

”Acknowledging you have that power is a good first step.” John chuckles as he stands and unbuttons his pants. Malcolm can see that John is already hard and feels bile rise to the back of his throat. John would be enjoying this.

John walks over to the canvas bag once more, and Malcolm struggles at the chains. What else is John going to pull from that bag? What other horrors will John expose him to?

”Relax, kid.” John shows Malcolm a jar of vaseline. “I’m not gonna hurt you more than necessary. I had to learn a lot to make sure this was good for you too.”

”Fuck you.” Malcolm surprises himself, not expecting to have much fight left in him. “That’s bullshit; all you want to do is hurt me.”

”If you prefer, I could do without it; it makes no difference to me.” John strides closer to Malcolm, his voice quieting. “I could take you just like this, no lube, no prep. It doesn’t _have_ to be good for you, dear Malcolm. I can just use you. You’d be nothing more than a means to an end. How does that sound?” John’s eyes narrow. He wants Malcolm to answer him. “Maybe I’ll fuck you so hard you bleed. Use your own blood as lube? Might take awhile for it to actually ease anything though. Is that what you want?” Malcolm closes his eyes. He can’t believe what he’s agreeing to.

”No. The vaseline is fine.” The words taste like ash in Malcolm’s mouth. Never did he think he’d get a say in his own rape.

”And?” John asks while unscrewing the lid.

”Thank you for thinking of me.” Malcolm spits at John, seething. John is forcing Malcolm to thank him, as though he’s not about to violate him.

John smiles at him, and it makes him want to vomit. If he had any food in him, he probably would. For once, he is grateful that he hasn’t eaten. Malcolm is so empty that all he can do is heave. John moves closer, and Malcolm willingly parts his legs. There’s no point in fighting anymore. Malcolm is weak, he’s tired of fighting, he’s so broken mentally that he figures the sooner he can get this over with, the better. Maybe if he’s good, John will reward him.

Malcolm lets out a sob when he feels John push at his entrance. It’s just one finger, one small part of the man. Nothing but a tease of what’s yet to come. Malcolm lies there, powerless, forced to try to make things better for himself in any way possible.

John slides his index finger in and out a couple of times. He adds his middle finger way too soon. Malcolm groans under the stretch and tries to draw his hips up and away from John. It’s pointless. Every twist causes John to brush against his prostate, and he cries out at the unwanted sensation. John clamps a hand down on Malcolm’s hip and holds him steadily in place.

”Stop moving like that, Malcolm. You’re making it much more difficult for me to control myself.” John murmurs as he palms himself through his jeans. Malcolm eyes John carefully, unsurprised that John is getting off on this.

”You weren’t doing a very good job to begin with.” Malcolm knows that talking back won’t get him anything but more pain, but if Malcolm can’t fight back physically, he is damn well going to fight back with his words and his mind.

John pulls his fingers out of Malcolm without warning and his blood chills with fear. There’s the possibility that John can seriously hurt him, far more than he already has. Now is not the time for Malcolm to be so stupid and reckless with his words. John is obviously hell bent on breaking him, body, mind, and soul. Every time Malcolm acts up he gives John the opportunity to get furious and violent.

”You think you’re so damn funny. You aren’t worthy of your father’s mission. I should just break you like the junkie you are. So dependent on all those drugs your little therapist gives you, not to mention all the shit you did in college. Malcolm, you don’t deserve forgiveness, or grace, or mercy. You’re a _sinner_ , and you’ll never be ready for your mission.” John unzips his pants, only pulling them down far enough to allow his cock to spring free. He barely rubs any of the vaseline on himself before he knees his way between Malcolm’s legs.

”Should have stayed nice, boy. This is your punishment. I warned you.” John lines up with Malcolm’s hole and groans as he enters Malcolm’s body.

Malcolm freezes. He can’t move. He doesn’t want to anyway. Malcolm closes his eyes to shield himself from the hungry look John is giving him. Every little move John makes sends a searing pain through Malcolm’s body. Malcolm whimpers and John shushes him, caressing his inner thigh. John’s touches may feel like those of a gentle lover, but to Malcolm, they’re the calm before the storm. If Malcolm didn’t already have trust issues, he would now. He feels sick. Disgusted by John’s actions and his own stupid brain trying to protect him by making him lay still.

John no longer feigns wanting to make Malcolm feel good. John said that he wanted to rip the world away from Malcolm, and he’s doing just that. He only cares about his own pleasure and in turn is damaging Malcolm beyond repair. Malcolm’s legs are forced further apart, John’s calloused hands pushing on his inner thighs, and the strain on his muscles feels as though the fibers will snap any second.

”Please. John, I can’t- It hurts! I’ll be good! I’ll forget about everyone! Just please, I’m begging-” Malcolm registers the sound of John’s slap before the stinging pain blooms on his cheek.

”Shut up!” John wraps his hands around Malcolm’s throat. “You had your chance. We’re doing this my way.”

John’s fingers dig into the back of Malcolm’s neck, his thumbs effectively slowing the blood supply to Malcolm’s brain. Malcolm’s already labored breaths stop completely when John presses his palms against Malcolm’s throat. Malcolm tries to scream, he really does, but all that comes out is the soft hiss of air.

John’s thrusts begin to pick up speed as he allows himself to enjoy Malcolm’s body. Every time John’s hips are flush against Malcolm’s, John tightens his grip on Malcolm’s neck and yanks Malcolm down onto him, spearing himself into Malcolm. The chains holding Malcolm in place shake with every pull, and silent screams pour from Malcolm’s mouth. He’s spread under John’s grasp and hips, and his back is arched and stretched taut as the handcuffs bite into his wrists.

John moans and shifts his hands around Malcolm’s neck. The rough fabric of his jeans starts to abrade the soft skin on Malcolm’s legs. Malcolm watches John raise up onto his knees, feels his weight transfering to his hands, and then he feels his throat give out under the pressure. There is no mistaking the feel of a pop and the shift of cartilage inside his throat. The uncomfortable tightness that feels like he’s choking. The sound itself is enough to send John flailing backwards. Each breath feels like nails down his raw throat. Malcolm’s trachea has ruptured.

Air floods into Malcolm’s chest. John begins to panic as Malcolm’s eyes go wide and he struggles at his restraints harder than he had been than when John was fucking into him. Malcolm inhales with ease, but the exhale is what gives him trouble. Used air seeps into places it shouldn’t be. With each breath the pressure in his body increases, and soon enough, his skin starts to swell with bubbles of trapped air just below the surface of his skin. Malcolm’s throat, now free of John’s hands, now bears the mark of John’s sins.

”Don’t worry, Malcolm. Studying under your father, I learned quite a bit, not only about death, but about preserving life.” John gives Malcolm a nonreassuring smile.

”You are… just going to… kill me… either way.” Malcolm mouths the words more than anything else. Without the proper air support, he can’t speak.

”I don’t want to kill you, little one.” Malcolm narrows his eyes at John. “I swear, that’s the God honest truth. I don’t want you dead. You’re no good to me dead. Besides, there is a difference between killing and letting die. I won’t do either. Not when it comes to you.” John strokes Malcolm’s hair and withdraws the pocket knife from where it sits on his belt.

”If I can just release the air that’s building up, everything will be just fine. This will be painful, but at least you will live.” John unfolds the knife.

John brings the blade up to his mouth and exhales over it until the metal fogs with his breath. Using his other hand to gather his shirt, John wipes off the blade and smiles apologetically at Malcolm.

”It’s not sterile, but it’s better than nothing.” John leans over Malcolm once more and Malcolm shudders when he remembers that John is still inside him.

”Let me die.” Malcolm mouths. “Please.”

”Shut your mouth. Moving will only make this worse. Will you ever listen to me? You stupid boy!” The tip of John’s knife hangs dangerously close to Malcolm’s face.

Keeping eye contact with Malcolm, John lowers the knife to Malcolm’s neck where a handful of bubbles add to the mess that John has made of Malcolm’s skin. John uses his fingers to position around the air pockets as his other hand drags the tip of the knife across the surface of Malcolm’s skin. He practices the movement, knowing that he only gets one shot at this.

Malcolm shakes as he feels the bite of the knife into his shoulder. John deliberately goes slow to make sure that he doesn’t catch Malcolm more than he needs to. Instant relief comes once John is finished with the first cut. Martin probably did teach John a few medical basics. John knows what he is doing. John is helping Malcolm. Releasing the air is only a temporary fix, but it is enough to keep Malcolm alive.

”Oh.” John whispers when he catches sight of the small bit of blood that drips from the incision. “Two left.”

John doesn’t hesitate on the next two passes. With each slice Malcolm’s dizziness fades and John becomes more confident, faster, and vocal. It dawns on Malcolm too late that John could have been avoiding keeping his hands dirty to restrain himself, not for a dislike of it.

”Look at that.” John drags his fingertips through the thin streams of red down Malcolm’s neck. Holding his hand above Malcolm’s face, John smiles maniacally. “Look how beautiful. Have you ever seen anything more beautiful? Your life force, coating my hands. It’s a wonder.”

While physically, breathing is easier, the realization is enough to send chills down Malcolm’s spine and shorten his breaths. John _loves_ this new power he has over Malcolm. To make him bleed. To bare parts of Malcolm that even Malcolm can’t see. To draw something so precious from Malcolm’s body.

Malcolm meets John’s eyes and he knows that this is the end of his mercy. John’s brown eyes have turned black with lust. They’re a dark and endless pit into the chasm of John’s soul. There’s not a single spec of humanity left in John. John has unlocked something he’s spent years fighting, and Malcolm is going to be the one to have to pay the price.

The next cut is unnecessary. All the air pockets have been taken care of. John is just enjoying the feel of Malcolm’s skin peeling back under his hand. John lays the knife flat against Malcolm’s throat and slides it downwards so that it catches on the light dusting of hair on his chest.

Tipping the knife back into position, John licks at his teeth, his canines as pointed as the knife digging into Malcolm’s shoulder. The sting isn’t unbearable, but Malcolm knows that John is working himself up to worse.

John alternates between scratching at Malcolm’s skin with the point of the knife and etching red lines in with a quick slash. He gives one particularly sharp cut over Malcolm’s collarbone, and Malcolm jerks and groans in response, clenching around John who is still hard and deep inside Malcolm.

The movement only reignites the fire that has been building under John. He pulls almost completely out of Malcolm before slamming his hips in. John’s grip on the knife goes white. He brings his arm across his chest and slices the top of Malcolm’s chest. Malcolm screams. John doesn’t care. He loves the sight and the noises and the feel of Malcolm.

Tears stream down Malcolm’s face. The air burns against the cuts on his chest. Malcolm is overwhelmed with pain. There’s a dull, throb radiating off of each cut. The knife was filthy and his immune system is already fighting against whatever the blade deposited. The pinch of every slice brings the pain to a sharp focus. It’s too much for Malcolm. He’s grateful for the mild fog being lightheaded gives him.

John thrusts again, just as hard, and cuts Malcolm again just slightly lower on his chest. For every roll of his hips, John gives Malcolm a matching slice. If John pumps slow and soft, the knife barely grazes Malcolm. If John presses forward so hard that Malcolm is pushed upwards against the poured concrete, a new, deep slit gets carved into his torso.

The blood covering Malcolm’s chest begins to cool and grow tacky. John rubs his hand up and down the tattered scene before him, laughing and groaning as Malcolm hisses under him. He slips his hand down to grip Malcolm’s hip and holds him steady as he fucks into him harder still.

”I’m going to cover you in red and white, Malcolm. The colors of our Lord. Red for the blood he shed and now the blood that you’re shedding. White for purity and everlasting life. This is your rebirth.” John rambles on, barely even aware of the stream of words coming from his mouth. He is way more interested in the way his knife glides through Malcolm so easily.

”Stop!” Malcolm yells, desperately trying to break John from his cloud of bloodlust.

John doesn’t hear him.

”Fuck! It’s hard to get a good grip on you. I need two hands.” John’s about to drop the knife. Malcolm thanks God for the small act of kindness. “Wait, no. I just need a handle. A better place to hold.”

Malcolm freezes. John doesn't drop the knife. He buries it deep into Malcolm’s side. The hilt flat against Malcolm’s ribcage.

John had aimed the attack perfectly, driving the knife between the lowest two ribs. Malcolm screams in agony. He thought he knew pain and anguish, but all his years of torment are nothing compared to the piercing sting of John’s knife.

”You know, Jesus had his side slashed? I think you should have a matching mark.” John readjusts his hold on the knife and _pulls_.

John does more than pull, he _rips_. Following the curve of Malcolm’s ribs, John carves into Malcolm, sliding the knife from Malcolm’s front, to his side, and as far back as John can reach.

Shock kicks in quickly, blanketing Malcolm in a distant sort of numbness that allows him to not have to focus on his body being shredded. He almost doesn’t even notice that John is still pumping his hips and chasing his release in Malcolm’s broken body. Malcolm is nearly able to pretend the whole thing isn’t even happening.

John pulls the knife from Malcolm’s side and the warm rush of blood wakes him up. John must have hit an artery that hides in the protection of his ribcage. Malcolm cries out and begs for John to stop, to help him, to grant him some kindness, but John can’t hear Malcolm’s desperate pleas and wails of pain over his grunts of pleasure. John is an animal, a beast. Ravaging all that he touches, snarling as he fucks Malcolm over and over, tearing at him with his nails.

John’s hand grazes over the wound in Malcolm’s side, and for a moment, Malcolm thinks that John is going to put pressure on the wound. But John never had any intentions of giving Malcolm relief, and he doesn’t plan on starting now.

Flaming locks of pain radiate from his ribs and wave over Malcolm. John worms his grubby fingers into the wound. His fingertips spear into the exposed tissue and dig in, seeking purchase in the wet heat. Malcolm screams so hard that the sound cuts off in his throat and all air stops. He can feel blood begin to pour out from his side faster.

Malcolm cries as unsettling vibrations shake his chest from John’s fingers playing with his ribs. John grins ferally as another part of Malcolm opens up for his unwelcome intrusion. Anchoring himself, John starts to drag Malcolm by his ribs to meet each thrust of John’s hips.

”Fuck, I don’t know which part of you feels hotter. That gash on your side is definitely tighter. Maybe I’ll fuck you there next and finish so deep inside you that no amount of cleanliness can remove me from you.” John roars. Malcolm knows that it’s not possible, but still, the thought strikes fear deep into his bones. John already has access to Malcolm’s bones. No part of him is safe. Not his body, not his mind, and probably not his soul.

John removes his hand from Malcolm’s side and rubs the fresh blood over his cock. As more blood leaves him, Malcolm wishes that he could leave his body too. Escape John’s assaults and drop down the drain to get carried far away from this cabin in New Jersey.

Malcolm lost too much blood. His vision fades to black. He welcomes the darkness. It gives him a reprieve. He closes his eyes and tries to will John to finish quickly.

”Don’t sleep, Malcolm.”

Malcom’s eyes shoot open, he’s only distantly aware of John on top of him, but there’s something nagging at him. A slight shift in the air that lets him know there’s someone else in the basement. He groans as he forces his eyes over the room. Malcolm refuses to move his head, too scared to risk any more damage to his trachea. He strains his gaze upwards, pain pulling at his eyes, forcing them as far up as his body will allow. Sitting there, poised and unaffected by the scene at her feet, is Gabrielle.

”You know, Malcolm, if you close your eyes now, it’s over for you.” She speaks slowly, hoping that Malcolm can keep up with her.

”You’re not really here. You’re a stress-induced hallucination.” Malcolm smiles and feels a trickle of blood roll out of the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t need to actually speak. Not that he wants to anyway. His neck still burns from John’s grip, but if Dr. Le Deux is in his head, then she can hear him just fine. She does.

”Malcolm, stay with me. It is possible for you to get through this. You just need to do as I say.” She moves forward to the edge of her chair. Her eyes shoot to the air next to Malcolm’s feet. Her look of concern drops to one of horror.

”Now, now, Gabrielle. I think my son should be taking medical advice from someone with actual medical experience, don’t you agree?”

Malcolm gives in and lifts his cheek to try and see his father standing before him. Malcolm’s breathing cuts off from the pain, and he drops his head back down to the cement floor, wincing as gravity takes over and pulls his head faster and harder than he meant to move.

”Malcolm. It’s dad!” Martin is in his usual white prison clothes with a cream cardigan and is presenting with his usual chipper attitude. “Though we’re both aware it’s not actually me. Ah, be careful with your head there. Don’t want to cause any more damage.” Martin paces around Malcolm’s body. He’s too weak to do anything but lay there in fear and shame as this figment of his father takes in every inch of his broken form and watches John’s abuse firsthand.

”I’m not going to make it, am I?” Maclolm pleads for Martin to answer him. “Dr. Whitly, in your professional opinion, as someone with actual medical experience, can I survive these wounds? Can I survive this?”

”Er, I’m afraid not, my boy.” Martin’s hand comes up to his mouth thoughtfully. Malcolm can’t help but feel like his father is judging him for his weakness, but also enjoying the pain that leaves Malcolm dazed and writhing. “In a perfect world, that team of yours would get here within the next couple of minutes with EMTs. John would be apprehended. You would be rescued, and then you would bleed out while comfortably sedated in the back of a sterile ambulance. However, we are dealing with John Watkins.” Martin sighs and gestures with a nod to John, who is still pulling at Malcolm. Martin drops his hands in a shrug of sorts. “In all honesty, Malcolm, you’re not going to make it. You’ll die of blood loss, which is much less painful than infection, but I am sorry this is how you will die, my boy. There are far prettier ways to go.”

”At least I won’t be alone, though- you’re here and so is Dr. Le Deux.” Malcolm is too tired to be properly scared by what his father is telling him.

”No, son, we won’t be.” Martin crouches down by Malcolm’s face and does his best to soothe Malcolm by brushing his hand through Malcolm’s hair. Martin grimaces when he feels how dirty it is and fails to hide how he wipes his hand on his pant leg. “As you lose more and more blood, your brain will quit trying to keep us here. You will die with no one to protect you from John. Not even the figments of your imagination can comfort you. I am sorry, Malcolm.”

”No, dad.” Malcolm cries and the noise gets stuck in his throat. He’s unable to breathe, choking on his own air. John makes a noise that echoes Malcolm’s. Malcolm pushes a sob back down. “Dad, don’t leave me. Not again. I can’t go through this alone. I don’t want to.”

”Malcolm, there is nothing anyone can do. You need to be a man and accept this.” Martin looks younger now. His hair has lost all of its grey streaks and is the deep, rich brown that Malcolm shares.

”Can you-” Malcolm coughs and watches as his father bounces in and out of focus, unsure if it’s due to blood loss or John dragging him repeatedly across the poured concrete floor. “Can you sing to me?”

”I’m not very good at singing, but who am I to refuse my dying son one final request?” Martin smiles fondly at Malcolm before starting to hum You Are My Sunshine.

”You and mom always used to sing this to me when you would put me to bed.” Malcolm smiles.

”I figured, why not do it one last time? For old times’ sake.” Martin brings his hand up to cup Malcolm’s face. It’s warm, and Malcolm can’t help but feel some form of relief, the intrusive physical contact leaving him desperate for any form of comfort. Not that good things can ever last for Malcolm. His father’s hand grows cold and rough. Nails press into his face drawing more blood to the surface. The strange hand grabs Malcolm by his hair and pulls his head up. Staring back at Malcolm is The Girl.

”Did you think you could get rid of me that easily?” Her voice is hoarse. She’s been screaming for years, and so has Malcolm.

”I came here to try to find you. I did this for you!” Malcolm’s eyes are wide. This is the first time he can see a clear image of who she was.

”Malcolm, you’ve always been foolish. I was gone the second Martin and John took me, and you were a lost cause the moment you remembered me.” She gives him a look of sympathy. The Girl is one of the few dozen people in the world who has been in the same position as Malcolm.

”I needed answers.” Malcolm’s vision begins to tunnel- all he can see is the tear-stained face of The Girl in front of him. “Shouldn’t you be gone by now?”

”And now you’ll never get them. You can’t do anyone any good when you’re _dead_.” The Girl emphasizes the last word. “You will die, Malcolm. I’m just here to keep you company.”

”Martin said I wouldn’t be able to keep the hallucinations up.” Malcolm is used to his father’s lies.

”Then don’t. Close your eyes.” The Girl’s voice is kind now, nearing that of Jessica’s. When Malcolm refuses, The Girl guides Malcolm’s head back to the floor, and her hand covers his eyes and shuts them for him. “It’s okay, Malcolm. No one will be mad at you for this. There’s only so much pain the human body can withstand. You’re at your capacity.”

”But what about the team? My family?” Malcom keeps his eyes closed and can feel a few stray tears escape. “I can’t just leave them. This will cause them so much pain. I don’t know if they can handle it.”

”Malcolm, you need to let go. It will be alright. You can stop suffering. All the pain you feel will dissipate.” The Girl’s voice no longer feels external, instead it booms in his head. “I promise your friends and family will understand. Once they find your body, they’ll forgive you. Do yourself one small act of mercy. Allow yourself this peace.”

The Girl is gone. She disappeared just like she did all those years ago. Malcolm can hear the metallic clinking of the chains scraping against the floor and John’s grunts, but they fade into nothing. All that’s left is the rattle of Malcolm’s breathing and the unsteady thumping of his heart in his chest. Until those too are gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [sonshineandshowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers) for being an amazing beta as usual <3

John’s movements somehow still grow wilder. He keeps his hands clamped on Malcolm’s body, pulling him to meet his every thrust. He’s too caught up in his own pleasure to spare a thought to Malcolm.

”Oh, little one, this is it. The final straw to separate you from the people who hold you back. Prepare yourself.” John moans and speaks these words into unhearing ears. He buries himself deep into Malcolm and comes with a shout. “You are a perfect disciple.”

When Malcolm doesn’t react, doesn’t whimper, or turn his head away, John knows that something is wrong. John removes his hands from Malcolm’s body and grimaces at the squelching noise from the man’s side. Carefully, John pulls out and admires his spend that follows him. This mark wouldn’t always be physical, but it would remain on Malcolm forever.

There’s still no response from Malcolm. Troublesome thoughts begin to enter John’s mind. He rises to his feet, pulling his pants up with him, and dries his hands on his shirt. John grabs the knife and cleans the blood off on his shirt. He’ll need to wash it soon so the blood doesn’t stain. He heads back to where Malcolm lays motionless on the floor.

John places the knife flat under Malcolm’s nose. Holding his breath, he waits for a fog to cloud the metal and put John’s suspicions at ease. It doesn’t come. It will never come. But John is stubborn. He forces Malcolm’s mouth open and tries to blow air back into his lungs. John pumps Malcolm’s chest, hoping to restart his heart. He tries the knife again, but there is still no sign that Malcolm is breathing.

”I killed him.” John whispers. He’s horrified. He stares at Malcolm’s body, his limbs refusing to let him move away. He can’t believe his eyes. John didn’t mean for Malcolm to die. He didn’t want him to die.

The thought of fucking Malcolm to death bubbles in John’s stomach, and his cock twitches—a physical response he can’t help. John normally prefers his partners _incapacitated,_ but that was never the plan with Malcolm.

John steps back from the body. Jerks away from it, as though Malcolm had reanimated and reached out to John, crying and asking why John had done this to him. Trying to grab John and drag him to the pits where he knows he belongs. John has to fix this, or at least fix things the best he can.

Rushing upstairs, John panics. He went too far. He deviated from the path. The path God had chosen for him. “Oh, God.” John’s voice breaks the static from his mind. “Oh, my God. I’ve let You down. I ruined this opportunity You’ve given me.” John covers his mouth with his hand. It’s sticky. It smells coppery. It’s covered in blood. For the first time, the feeling of blood makes him want to vomit.

John, half aware of his actions, stumbles to the bathroom. He turns the light on, cursing as the blood stains the wall. He turns the sink on and watches the water run deep red. “Like the first of the Ten Plagues.” John drops his head and wails. “This is God punishing me. It has to be. I- I-” John’s head snaps up. He meets his gaze in the mirror. For too long, he’s looked back into those eyes. John straightens up and points a finger at his duplicate. “This is your fault!”

His reflection spits the insult back at him. There’s no running from yourself. John moves closer, the counter digging into his hips. His accusatory self is not threatened. “You were so intent on punishing Malcolm for his crimes, you didn’t even realize you committed the same act as him. You betrayed Martin. You took away his only chance of a true successor. Did you truly believe that Martin would ever see _you_ as a son? As someone worthy of his mission?” John’s hand reaches out and smears the now tacky blood across the mirror. It breaks his gaze and pulls him from his pity. John knows what he needs to do.

John moves to the bedroom, grabbing the quilt and his favorite pillow. Moving through the kitchen, he also picks up a yellow steno pad and a pen. As he descends the stairs to the basement, John’s gut sinks with him. This was not how he had planned this. In fact, he never even considered this to be an option. He walks to the small electrical panel hidden under the stairs and turns the lights on. The crackling and twinkling of the lights isn’t enough to pull him from staring at Malcolm. His eyes are closed, thankfully, but that’s the only peaceful thing about him. Small cuts litter his neck and chest. Bruises mark every place John had touched. A few long lines of blood drip from his stomach and pool on the floor next to him. The gash between Malcolm’s ribs hurts John the most to look at. John finally looks away from Malcolm to look at his hand. There’s still blood under his nails. Without thinking, John rubs his hands on his pants, as if that would cleanse him of any of his sins.

Slowly, John spreads out the quilt. His hands tremble as he smooths out the corners and fixes the edges. It needs to be perfect. He places the pillow near the top of the quilt. It’s not much, not anywhere near as grand as it should be, but it’ll do. It’ll do until his family can give him a proper burial. John kneels next to Malcolm and carefully slides his arms under him. With the balls of his feet pressed into the floor and ready to stand, John laughs. At first it’s forced, but then it blooms into full hysterics. John tilts his head to the right and positions Malcolm’s arms to hang. John stays still for a moment. Then takes a big inhale. “Malcolm,” he murmurs into deaf ears, “we look like the Pieta.”

John grunts as he takes on the dead weight of Malcolm’s body. Struggling not to drop him, John grimaces as his hands only stretch the fatal wounds he inflicted. The few steps to the center of the quilt feel like forty days and forty nights, but eventually, and not a moment too soon, John sets Malcolm down. He straightens Malcolm’s head to be centered on the pillow. Then John steps back and straightens Malcolm’s body so that it’s over on the right most third of the quilt. His eyes rake over Malcolm’s fragile frame. Despite the fact he was wasting away, it’s not difficult to see how beautiful Malcolm was, _still is_. John tilts his head, carefully weighing his options. He’s never had a body this beautiful before. Malcolm makes such an attractive corpse. The familiar bubble of excitement forms low in his stomach. Shaking his head, John forces himself to take a step back. He won’t allow himself any more pleasure tonight, not after the way it had ended. John takes one last longing look at Malcolm. “I can’t afford any more deviations from the plan.” He hopes that saying it out loud will help him believe it.

John says a quiet thanks that Malcolm was so small, it makes for easy disposal. Though in this case, it is more preparation rather than John’s normal disposal method. He takes the bottom of the quilt and folds it up over Malcolm’s legs, then crosses the right side so that it covers Malcolm. Next, the left side of the quilt gets pulled tight across Malcolm. John carefully steps over the cocoon and proceeds to tuck the remaining fabric between Malcolm and the floor. The quilt is quickly turning red. John wonders if it will pick up Malcolm’s imprint like the Shroud of Turin.

None of that matters, though- Malcolm is dead and John killed him. With one last longing glance, John sweeps his hand over the quilt and tries to flatten any wrinkles in the fabric. Malcolm deserved better than this. John failed his mission, failed Martin, failed his God, and there’s only one way for John to make this right.

Picking up the pen and steno pad, John attempts to pluck the racing thoughts from his head and begins to put them on paper.

_When I first started my work with Dr. Whitly, I was introduced to his son, Malcolm. I immediately knew that this boy would become vital to my life, more so than his father. Malcolm tried to kill me when he was young, but that was in self-defense. As I’m sure you are all aware, I had recently resumed contact with Malcolm. At first it was my intention to kill him. He interrupted my mission, and I know how this current situation looks, but I didn't mean to kill Malcolm now. I realized that he was put into my life so that I could continue Dr. Whitly’s work of mentoring Malcolm. Malcolm was stubborn and refused to follow in the path that his father and God had set up before him. It was then I decided to take matters into my own hands and help Malcolm become the man he was always meant to be. I thought the best way for Malcolm to truly accept himself was to tear away who he thought he was. As I began to strip our society’s ideals away from Malcolm, I got carried away. I had hurt him, and when I tried to use the skills Dr. Whitly had given me, I broke him beyond repair. While helping Malcolm free his mind, I ruptured his trachea, which caused air bubbles to become trapped below his skin. I attempted to release the pressure, but once I started cutting into his perfect flesh, I lost control. I made multiple incisions, including the one between his ribs that ultimately led to his death. There is only one way for me to atone for my sin, and I too must die. With this note, I hope that the police and whatever other agencies are involved will better understand the circumstances leading up to Malcolm Whitly’s death. And mine. I am sorry for the Whitly family’s loss and hope that Dr. Whitly understands that everything I did, I did for him. However, my betrayal cannot go unpunished. I will suffer the same fate as Malcolm and die. I refuse to stand before a court, as only the Lord can judge my actions that were done in His name._

John looks over the note and hopes that he was able to sum up enough of the events. Even in death, he doesn’t want the police to go digging around his cabin and Malcolm’s body, looking for any further clues. While he checks his words, John climbs the stairs, barely noticing when his feet carry him to a stop in front of the landline. John knows what he must do. He doesn’t trust the police to find this place quickly- John prides himself on how remote this location is- but he won’t allow Malcolm to rot here. Malcolm deserves a burial where people can mourn him properly. The child of Dr. Whitly deserves that much. Before John can plan out what he wants to say, he pulls the receiver off of its resting place and punches in the three numbers he hates so much. Each touch tone pierces his head and reminds him of the sin he committed.

”911, what’s your emergency?” The woman’s voice is calm. She does not know the information she is about to receive.

”This is John Watkins. I presume I’m on some sort of list or am the conquest of a manhunt?” John hopes that the woman can’t pick up on how shaky his voice is.

”Mr. Watkins, the NYPD and FBI are looking for you. What is the nature of your call?” She sounds scared. John is fairly certain he heard a click as though someone else has been added to his call.

”Malcolm Whitly is dead. I killed him, by accident, but still, he is dead. I am at 34 Pine Street in New Jersey. Tell the authorities that his body is here and mine will be too. There’s no need for any more people to get hurt.” John curtly nods, happy with how he worded things.

”Mr. Watkins, what else can you tell me-” John hangs up. He does not bother giving any more information. He told her enough on the phone and gave as much information as he cared to in his note. Both he and Malcolm should be disturbed as little as possible in their rest.

John stands there staring at the phone. He suddenly regrets every decision he’s made that led up to this moment in his life. He breathes in through his nose and holds it for a four count. _The police are on their way_ , he blows out the air shakily through his mouth, _I refuse to be tried by those who won’t follow the rules that God has laid out_. John knows that if he doesn’t start acting soon, he will be caught, something else he never accounted for. John runs to the bedroom looking for his gun. In his haste to find the weapon, he trashes the room: drawers are pulled from nightstands, sheets are ripped from the bed, desks are overturned, and clothes are thrown from the closet.

”You idiot!” John screams to the air. He’s running on adrenaline, but panic is starting to set in. He needs to find a way for his soul to be gone and soon. Resigning himself to the fact that he won’t find the gun quickly enough, he rushes to the kitchen. A knife wouldn’t be his prefered method, a small part of him truly did hate getting his hands dirty, but anything was better than nothing. As he goes to open the drawer, he glances out to the living room and sees the ornate wooden bookshelf.

”Saint Margaret Clitherow was tried for her faith. Those around her did not understand her love for her God and she became a martyr. She was crushed to death.” John pauses; this wouldn’t be an easy death. “I don’t deserve to die without suffering. As Christ suffered, I must suffer too.”

John hesitantly stands in front of the bookshelf. The dark cherry color would compliment any blood that he shed. John realizes that the note is still in the mess he made of the bedroom. Not daring to waste any more precious seconds, he runs to the bedroom, door slamming on his way in, and spots the note. He grabs the note tightly, not wanting to mindlessly drop it in his frenzied state, and runs it to the kitchen counter. He blows out a puff of air in annoyance; he crinkled the note and now he can’t get the creases out. This whole thing looks rushed, which it is, but John wants this as perfect as he can get it.

Once more, John finds himself in the shadow cast by the large bookshelf. He stretches up on to his toes to reach the carved peaks on the top of the shelving unit. Giving it a few experimental shakes, John smiles. He is pleased with the plan that he put together so quickly. The bookshelf seems as though it would topple over with enough force. John thinks of his grandmother. This isn’t how she raised him. He made a mess of the bedroom and will not leave it that way. In his final moments on Earth, he needs to show respect to the woman who had taken the time to rear him.

John will not allow himself to tarnish his grandmother’s efforts to raise him to be a respectable and responsible young man. He killed Malcolm and must pay for his actions, but first he has to make sure the cabin is in order. Grandmother did always say that poor grammar and messy rooms were a slippery slope to damnation. John looks over to the clock sitting on the bedside table and sees that he spent more time than he budgeted for staring at what would bring about his end. He knows his grandmother won’t approve, but he folds the sheets to the best of his ability and places them on the foot of the bed. He throws items in drawers that they don’t normally belong in. His grandmother would have chastised him if he did something like this in his youth. She always said things had to be done properly, but John was running out of time. Feeling that his efforts are just enough to make the cabin presentable, he closes the bedroom door behind him.

John takes the family photos and books off of the shelves. He doesn’t want to cause more collateral damage than he already did with Malcolm. Once everything is neatly piled on the coffee table, arranged into three groups of family pictures, books, and knickknacks, John closes his eyes.

He begins to speak softly, as though he worries that his words will reach ears that no longer wish to hear his prayers. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our tresspasses. As we forgive those who trespass against us and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.”

John takes a deep breath. He shifts his weight so that he is balancing up on his toes, hands tightly gripping the top of the bookshelf. In one swift motion, John rocks backward, yanking the shelving unit forward. John grunts and the bookshelf groans under the weight of his hands. John feels gravity pull him backwards, watches as the same force takes hold of the bookshelf, sending it downwards with him. John’s back hits the floor and all the air is pushed out of his lungs. In the brief moment that the bookshelf is mere inches from his face, he struggles to breathe in. Then there’s a crash. John screams in pain. The weight of the bookshelf digs individual slats of wood into him. John considers it luck that his face lines up perfectly with an empty space, but his chest is nowhere near unharmed.

John can already tell that multiple ribs are broken, not to mention at least one fracture in his left arm as well. The crushing weight of the bookshelf on top of him makes it nearly impossible for John to suck in any air. He lays there, numerous prayers running through his mind in an attempt to be a mantra; something to take his mind off of the pain that will end him. John waits, knows that he has to. Being crushed to death is neither quick nor painless. Death will not come so sweetly, will not be an escape from the pain. Death will be something that John has to earn. He will have to suffer. If he wants to die, if he truly wants to atone for his sins and suffer in a way that will help him win back the favor of his God and mentor, John needs to give in. He needs to accept that he failed and that this is the only acceptable punishment.

He’s unsure of how much time has passed, the pain cutting him off from his surroundings and pushing him to limits he didn’t know existed. John’s breathing slows, the pain fading to numbness. He thinks to himself that this is it. He lets his eyes flutter shut and waits for a sinking feeling, or maybe it will feel like floating. Instead, he’s met with the sound of brakes screeching to a halt and voices yelling commands that he can’t quite make out. John has failed _again_. The police are here and he’s still alive. The situation is looking more and more bleak with every attempt he makes to fix it.

Gil bursts through the doors of the cabin first. He’s tailed by Dani, JT, and Colette, who looks less than thrilled to be following the team instead of leading them. There are multiple cars outside filled with agents and police alike, weapons aimed at every possible egress of the cabin.

”John Watkins!” Gil and Colette yell at the same time. Gil nods to Colette. Hostage extraction is something that she has more experience with, and they aren’t sure if John’s call can be trusted. Colette continues, “We have this place surrounded. We received your phone call. Come out with your hands above your head. This doesn’t have to get any messier.”

Looking around, JT and Dani notice the state of the cabin. Things thrown about haphazardly, the toppled bookshelf, numerous kitchen drawers and cabinets left open. Colette wasn’t lying about things not needing to get messier.

”Watkins,” Gil tries, “where is Malcolm Bright?”

Colette suggests that the group should split up and search different rooms. Gil and JT are sent to the bedroom while Dani and Colette go to check the kitchen and dining room. Dani spots the note first and begins to read it out loud. Her voice trails off when she gets to “...But I didn’t mean to kill him now.”

”Oh my god. He’s really dead. Gil, he killed him. That bastard wasn’t lying! He killed him!” Dani is furious, anger clouding her vision. She looks as though she’s about to rip the note in half until Colette grabs it from her and JT places a firm hand on her arm.

”Dani, we need that for evidence. As personal as this is, we need to do our jobs. It’s the most we can do for Malcolm.” JT’s face is blank. He’s trying so hard not to let any emotion escape, but he knows he will lose it when he sees the monster that took his friend from him.

”Detective Tarmel is right.” Shock quickly passes over JT’s face when Colette addresses him properly. “We need to move quickly. Bring this son of a bitch in now.”

Gil has been standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching the events unfold. When Dani confirms that Malcolm truly is dead, his knees go weak. Gil has to grab onto the door frame for support. Everyone is quiet. They all just stand there, trying their best to come to terms with the fact that Bright is dead. The fact that they are too late. The fact that all their worst nightmares have come true.

”I want him found.” Gil is the first to speak following the silence. “Search every inch of this place, no matter how improbable. I want it all combed.”

Colette goes to the front door and calls the rest of her team in, instructing them to begin their sweep and gather whatever they can for evidence. Dani starts to sort through all the family trinkets on the table. JT and Gil lift up the overturned bookshelf.

”I’ll be damned.” Gil stares down at the man who killed Malcolm. There, under the fallen bookcase, is John Watkins. Severely injured and barely breathing, but alive.

”Pull him up to his feet.” Colette orders her subordinates to push past the team and grab Watkins. As the agents draw near, the police step back. The agents are removed from this emotionally and can do their jobs properly, but the team is not. John Watkins killed one of theirs, one of their family. Seeing him, in person, alive- it’s too much for any of them to process. After weeks of tireless searching, praying to whatever God would hear them, using up favors, it was all for nothing. Malcolm Bright is dead and John Watkins is alive. Watkins groans as the two agents hold him up. He meets Gil’s look of horror with a defiant glare.

”Lieutenant Arroyo,” Watkins’ voice is harsh, probably damaged from a shelf hitting his throat just the right way, “I am sorry about the kid.”

”Don’t you fucking dare call him that!” Gil throws his shoulders back, ready to run at Watkins, but Colette steps between the two of them.

”John Watkins, you’re under arrest for the kidnapping and murder of Malcolm Whitly, as well as nineteen other counts of murder in the first degree. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney.” Colette freezes when she sees Watkins somehow muster the strength to shake the two agents off of him. Everyone else in the room stills, watching Watkins warily. He points at JT.

”Malcolm was very quiet about you. Said you had a family of your own and didn’t want to drag his family matters into yours.” John smiles as JT is visibly uncomfortable at the thought of his family being brought into this. “Gil, you’re next. Malcolm cried for you the whole time. Every day he would call out for you; sometimes he’d even talk like you were in there with him.” John pauses and dramatically rolls his eyes. “He just wouldn’t shut up about you. How you were going to save him. How you were always there for him and that this time wouldn’t be an exception. Though, you did fail him this time, Gil. You weren’t there to save him and look what happened. You let him down.”

”Shut up.” Gil forces through clenched teeth,

Watkins turns to look at Dani. “You, my dear, well, Malcolm spoke so highly of you. Said what a tough Bronx girl you are. He tried so hard to be strong like you, but I guess he just didn’t have it in him.” Slowly, a new plan forms in John’s head. One that can work, he just needs to execute it properly.

“Although, he did leave me with one useful bit of information. One night while delirious, Malcolm mentioned your little habit. Cocaine was it? Injected, no doubt. You would’ve been such an obvious mark for me. You check all my boxes, dear Dani: from the Bronx, a junkie, and a beautiful girl too. You should be ashamed! Polluting yourself, sinning like that. You’re filthy! You don’t deserve to live. Let me check your arms. You don’t have me fooled like you did Malcolm, oh no. I don't believe you’re clean at all!” Watkins lunges for Dani.

It all happens in slow motion. Dani freezes. Watkins is moving towards her fast, until he’s not. He’s falling. Seconds after it happens, she recognizes the sound of a gunshot. Dani’s eyes close, and when they reopen, she sees Gil, his gun still drawn, a look of pure hate written across his face. Everyone else is frozen too. They all stop to look at Watkins’ body and Gil, whose gun is still trained on him.

”Arroyo, you better fucking explain this one to me. Now!” Colette is pissed and rightfully so. “Gil, he wasn’t armed! He was weak! You shot him in the back! What was your logic here?”

”Funny. When Malcolm complained of the same thing, he got fired from the FBI.” Gil refuses to look at Colette. He’s still staring down the body of John Watkins.

”I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Bright got fired because he disrespected a sergeant. You, however, you can bet your ass that you’re gonna get fired for this. We still don’t know what happened here! Watkins’ note gives us fuck all, and you went and killed the one person who could’ve filled in those gaps.” Colette is up in Gil’s face. She’s seething.

”Watkins was going to attack a detective. I did what was necessary to protect one of my officers. I’m justified here.” Without once meeting her eyes, Gil sidesteps Colette and makes his way over to Dani. He pulls her in for a hug. “It’s a good thing both your team and mine are here then. I’m sure together we have someone smart enough to piece together this train wreck.” Refusing to let go of Dani, Gil waves JT over.

”Call Edrisa and tell her there’s two bodies she has to prep for. I want Watkins out first. We know what happened to him so there’s no need to fence off this room.” Gil commands, his voice flat.

Dani struggles out of Gil’s arms. “I’m okay, Gil. Really, I am.” She gives Gil a forced smile, and he tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ears.

”I couldn’t lose someone else to this guy. I couldn’t.” Gil takes a shaky breath and makes himself mirror the smile that Dani gave.

”Let’s go find Bright. The sooner we can get this over with, the better.” Dani steps away and makes a point not to look at Watkins’ corpse. “The one place we haven’t checked yet is the basement.” Dani and Gil head towards the stairwell, but Colette puts up an arm to block Gil.

”You really think that I’m just going to let you have free run of this crime scene after that stunt you pulled? You’re out of your mind. Powell, you and JT can go downstairs. Arroyo, you’re with me. There are agents waiting for you. They have questions you need to answer.” Colette grabs Gil’s wrist. He twists his hand out of her grasp.

”No, _you’re_ the one out of your mind if you think I’m not going to go down there and see that kid. He was like my _son_ , Colette. I’ll be damned if I don’t get to see him.

Colette looks between Gil and Dani. She knows what Gil meant to Bright. He’d never shut up about Gil this or Gil that when they worked together. “Fine. But the second you’re done with the scene, you have to go and give your statement.”

Relief floods Gil’s face. “You have my word. Let me see him.” Gil’s voice finally breaks. Finally betrays all his emotions running rampant. “ _Please_.”

Colette descends the stairs first, thankful that the lights are still on. The dim orange glow illuminates almost all of the basement. Gil is the next to come down, followed by Dani, JT, and a few FBI agents whose names no one bothered to learn.

There, in the center of the room, is a pale blue quilt. On it are dark red stains, slowly spreading and reaching further into the fabric. It’s something that will forever be ingrained in Gil’s memory. Working homicide in the city exposed him to a lot, but seeing the makeshift casket of your son is nothing you could have ever prepared for. No amount of horror would make you strong enough to know that you’ll never hear his voice again, never see him smile, never hear his laugh, nor be able to reach out and fix his hair or tie. There is nothing that could have made this any easier for Gil.

Colette steps forward, her gloved hands reaching down to begin to unfold the shroud. Gil turns and raises his eyes to the ceiling. He can’t look. He can’t wait in suspense. He puts his gloves on, and the snap of them against his skin pulls Colette’s eyes to him.

”Gil,” her voice is soft. Immediate family normally does not get to be on premises for occasions like this. There should be a trauma counselor here. “Do you want to step out?”

”Special Agent Swanson, I would like to remove the blanket.” Gil stands at the foot of the bundle. Colette nods and stands up, giving Gil the space he needs to work.

”Gil, are you sure about this?” Dani’s voice reaches him but does nothing to slow his movement. Like a bandaid, he needs to get this over with. He won’t let anyone or anything slow him down from doing his job. Gil doesn’t respond to Dani. Not even when she slides on her gloves and joins him in undoing the bedding.

Dani gags and rushes up the stairs to vomit. Colette covers her mouth with her hand but it does nothing to cover the harshness of her gasp. JT mutters a “dear God” under his breath. And Gil? Gil kneels there, cradling Malcolm’s face. Crying softly as he takes in Malcolm’s form. His poor boy.

Lying there on the old quilt and thin pillow is a hollow shell that looks vaguely like Malcolm Bright. Gil can’t believe that it’s actually Malcolm. He wonders if Watkins took another hostage that looked just enough like Malcolm to throw the authorities off his scent, but no missing persons came in that would have matched that bill. Colette had been monitoring that end since she had seen that happen on previous cases before.

Gil pulls his hands from Malcolm’s face. He resists an urge to smooth Malcolm’s hair, adjust his limbs to a more natural position, or scream at Malcolm to wake up. Gil wants nothing more than for Malcolm to wake. Or maybe it’s all a dream. Maybe Gil is asleep, and when he wakes up, it’ll just be another normal day looking for his lost city boy.

Dani, who had come back downstairs, places her hand on Gil’s shoulder, and JT walks over to join them. Even Colette crouches down and offers Gil a glance filled with sympathy. For a brief moment, the four of them grieve together for their fallen coworker. For their friend. For the man who never truly got to live his life.

”I’m so sorry, boss.” JT says. He backs up to give Gil space to stand.

”Gil,” Dani sniffs, trying her hardest to hold back her tears, “Gil, I’m sorry.” She pulls Gil into a hug, but he’s too numb to move. He allows her to hold him in her arms, hold him up, hold him together.

”My condolences, Lieutenant Arroyo, but I’m afraid I must ask. Can you confirm that this is Malcolm Bright.” Colette’s voice is gentle. Gil breaks away from Dani. He stares at the neatly wrapped body for a moment and wipes away a tear.

”Agent Swanson, that’s my boy there. He’s dead. John killed him.” Gil sways.

”Woah, easy.” Colette rushes over to Gil and drapes his arm around her neck. “Let’s go upstairs. You don’t need to be around this any longer than necessary.” Colette begins to lead Gil to the stairs when Edrisa comes rushing down.

Edrisa runs down the steps and nearly collides with Colette. Her glasses are fogged with tears and her nose is red. Edrisa takes her job seriously, but never thought she would be working on a case involving one of her friends.

”Oh, Gil!” Edrisa throws her arms around Gil. He slowly brings his hand up to the back of her head and holds her tighter. “Gil, I miss him.”

”Me too.” Gil whispers. “I’ll let you do your job. I- I can’t be down here. I can’t see this. I’m sorry, Edrisa, you know I would give anything to stand next to you.”

”No, Gil, it’s fine. JT and Dani will be here with me.” Edrisa does her best to smile reassuringly, but she’s in no mood to smile. It’s forced and everyone can tell.

”Arroyo has some agents to talk to anyway.” Colette grips Gil by the arm and pushes past Edrisa and up the stairs. Gil lets her lead him away. He’s relieved that there is at least one person among them who can function and do their job after seeing the horror that happened to Bright.

JT looks over to Dani. She’s still crying, but she’s moving around the basement bagging evidence and trying her best to do her job as though it was business as usual and not the crime scene with her friend’s body on display.

”Edrisa, what can you tell me?” JT wanders over to her. Edrisa looks over her shoulder as she carefully checks over the body.

”I’ll have to run some more tests once I can take him back, but I’d say the cause of death was blood loss.” She points to the long cut on Malcolm’s ribcage. “Watkins most likely hit an intercostal artery, the arteries between the ribs coming from the aorta, with this cut causing him to bleed out fairly quickly.” Edrisa sighs and stands up. “Can you two look for the weapon? It’ll help me be able to tell you more about these cuts.”

”There are worse ways to go than bleeding to death.” JT tries his best to make light of the situation. He doesn’t want to think about it too hard. He needs to be the strong one for the group.

”Unfortunately, I don’t think it was so painless. The fatal wound has tears along the edges, it looks like something was forced inside.” Edrisa takes a deep breath. “It would’ve been the worst pain he’d ever felt.” Edrisa looks at Malcolm’s body sadly.

”What are, uh, the cuts on his neck and chest?” Dani hesitantly looks over at Malcolm. He’s emaciated, but the cuts don’t look to be the results of poor nutrition.

”I really only just got down here.” Edrisa snaps. She’s never been short with any of the other team members before. “I’m sorry, I’m just stressed. I wish I didn’t have to be here.” Dani gives Edrisa a one-armed hug. “I’ll look over them now. Please find that weapon. Odds are it’s serrated.”

”Yeah, the weapon. No problem.” Dani nods to JT and they begin their sweep of the basement.

JT heads to the stairs, and Dani starts to rummage through the canvas tool bag. There’s nothing over by the stairs, and JT kicks the wall in frustration. Dani unzips one of the outer pockets and finds a bloodstained hunting knife. She holds it up, and JT’s face lights up for a split second. At least they can bring their friend some justice in the afterlife.

”Got it, Edrisa!” Dani joins Edrisa and passes the knife into her gloved hand. Edrisa runs her finger along the edge and nods solemnly.

”Yeah, this was the weapon.” She lines the blade up with the cuts littering Malcolm’s chest. “It looks like it matches up.”

Back in the lab, Edrisa is able to run more tests and sort things out. Comparing the evidence to John’s note, she helps Gil and Colette piece together a better timeline of what happened to Malcolm. The rape kit matched the bodily fluids found on Malcolm to the sample they took from Watkins. The blood trapped under Watkins’ nails matches the pool of blood found under Malcolm. It was Malcolm’s blood. John had dug his hand into Malcolm’s chest. There wasn’t one moment of Malcolm’s gruesome death that escaped the team. They all are painfully aware of how Malcolm spent the last few moments of his life.

Edrisa had once said that she feels honored to spend these last moments with the victims on her table, but today, she doesn’t feel any honor. Today, Edrisa is grieving. One of her closest friends is laying on her table. The captain tried to pull her off the case, along with the rest of the team once Bright’s death was confirmed, but she refused. They all did. They want to see this through. Do one last thing right by Malcolm.

”I am so sorry. Malcolm, you were so strong. I’m lucky to have known you. I wish we could’ve done more for you, but you can rest now. You helped so many people, saved so many lives. It’s a shame yours ended too early. No one blames you, just so you know.” Edrisa wipes at her eyes and looks up at the ceiling. Anything to peel her eyes away from Malcolm.

”Gil’s taking it the worst, but he still loves you. He always will. We all do. You’re free of all your pain now though. Your night terrors, your fear, the actual pain. It’s all over. We have to deal with our own pain now. You were so full of life, Malcolm. Bright really was such a fitting name for you. The world’s a little darker without you in it.” Edrisa forces herself to her desk and downs her water bottle. Anything to keep her from crying. She’s not sure she has any tears left.

Ainsley had stopped by earlier that afternoon to drop off pictures of Malcolm. Edrisa was preparing the body for the service. She spent the morning trying to still her own shaking hands so that her sutures could live up to Malcolm’s praise of “Picasso with formaldehyde.” Edrisa feels like she did Malcolm justice. He _almost_ looks like himself, like he was just asleep. Malcolm never slept though, anyone who knew him knew that. That was the only thing making it really sink in for Edrisa. Malcolm wouldn’t have been asleep. There was no rest for him, not until his death.

The service scheduled for the next night is expected to be a private affair. Immediate family and friends only. Ainsley is pretty much planning the whole thing herself, poor girl. Jessica is too grief stricken to do anything more than agree to anything Ainsley says. She’s not even putting up a fight over small details like what suit Malcolm will wear or the color of the casket. Ainsley gets final say on everything.

The mortician is scheduled to arrive in about half an hour to transport Malcolm to the funeral home and do the finishing touches. Dress him, do his makeup, lay him out. All the things that Edrisa can’t bring herself to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could not have done this without [sonshineandshowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers) supporting me throughout the whole thing.

In the front row of the funeral home are two cushioned arm chairs, occupied by immediate family. Jessica blankly stares at her son. She was given some medication from her doctor and didn’t even bother to ask what it was before swallowing the pills down dry. Anything to make her not have to fully feel the sharp loss of her son. Besides, her doctor would rather she take pills that he could monitor than medicate herself. Ainsley sits next to her, squeezing Jessica’s hand. Ainsely hasn’t slept in a few days. She refused the medications that her mother so gladly accepted. She wanted to feel the hurt. If Malcolm had to suffer, she shouldn’t get to be lucky. Not that the Whitly family was ever lucky.

Shockingly, also in the front is Martin Whitly. Colette and Gil were able to pull some strings and get furlough for him. Next to him is Mr. David, as well as two other guards from Claremont who make JT look weak. Martin is bound, hand and foot, with his wrists attached to the chain around his waist. He’s on another round of the sedatives he was given when Gil had first gone to tell him that Malcolm was taken by John.

Gil is the first person to show up. He gives his condolences to Jessica and Ainsley. He even gives Martin a small nod. As he walks over the casket his eyes immediately fill with tears. He can’t believe what he’s seeing. Malcolm looks like how Gil remembers him. Malcolm looks like himself. The color returned to his cheeks and his hair perfectly styled. He looks nothing like how Gil had last seen him, broken on the quilt, under the sick glow of the lights in John’s basement.

”Jessica,” Gil’s voice cracks, “I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I should’ve been there. I should’ve saved him.”

”Gil, this isn’t your fault.” Ainsley steps in and answers for her mother.

”No parent should have to bury their child.” Gil tries again. Jessica finally looks over to Gil and smiles.

”Gil, my son wouldn’t have made it this far without you.” Her words come slowly, each taking a great amount of effort. “Unless you’re saying ‘I’m sorry’ like other people will be tonight, I don’t want to hear it.”

Jessica’s words do nothing to lighten the weight that has settled in Gil’s chest. It sinks in his stomach and makes him drag his feet as he sits down in the second row, as far away from Martin as possible. As it gets nearer to 7:00pm, more people begin to arrive for the funeral, but Gil doesn’t bother to turn his head. He will see them all soon enough. A steady parade of people dressed in black come through the doors in the back of the room and line up along the far wall. They go over to the open casket and then go over to Jessica. They all say the same things; how sorry they are for her loss, how wonderful Malcolm looks, how they can’t believe he’s gone.

A few of the people Gil recognizes as family. Soon enough, the crowd turns from family to friends. Vijay is the first person to come and sit next to Gil for a bit. He’s thankful that Vijay doesn’t try to start a conversation; Gil isn’t sure he can bear to look at the man without thinking of when Malcolm was off in boarding school. So young and eager to be on his own, away from his family’s legacy.

Colette arrives with a few other FBI agents. Gil doesn’t remember them from the scene, so they must be people that Malcolm worked with. They all eye Martin warily and Gil doesn’t blame them. Even chained up, medicated, and with the guards around him, Martin is threatening. Still, Gil didn’t want the man to have to suffer through this night in a cell.

Deep down, Gil knows that he wants Martin here just to watch him suffer. Martin knows that he brought John Watkins into his son’s life. It’s Martin’s fault that Malcolm died. Gil is angry and wants to watch the man responsible for Malcolm’s death have to deal with those consequences firsthand. To have him surrounded by the grief that he caused.

A hush falls over the crowd and Gil forces himself to look away from Malcolm to see Dani standing in the doorway. She’s disheveled and her eyes are glassy. She stumbles through the doors over to Gil and he wonders if she’s grief-stricken or high. When she plops down on the chair next to him and lazily swings her head around to face him, Gil knows that it’s both.

”Dani,” he says softly, “you’re high.” Dani had been doing so well. Gil mentally kicks himself for not sparing a thought to her. How Malcolm’s death might’ve affected her too.

”I’m medicated.” She replies languidly.

”Jessica and Martin are medicated. You’re high.” Gil scolds. He’s more angry with himself than he is Dani.

”Then I’m self-medicating.” Dani sighs and drops her head on Gil’s shoulder. “Gil, I can’t go up there. I can’t look at him. I was there. We both were. We saw what he looked like. He didn’t look like himself. That man in that casket there? That’s not Bright. If Bright looks like that, he’s in his apartment living off of licorice and sparkling water. That Bright up there? He’s alive. The Bright we saw is dead. That awful, gaunt, shell of a human. That man was Bright.” Dani’s voice begins to grow louder. “Bright’s not here. He’s not. He’s hiding. Maybe John took him! Or-”

”Powell, you’re _yelling_.” Gil leans away from Dani to look her in the eyes. The two of them stare at each other, each unwilling to apologize for the scene they’ve caused. Gil’s the first to cry. Looking into Dani’s eyes is too hard. Another young life for him to lead astray. Another person he loves that he can’t protect.

”Dani.” Gil pulls her into a hug. She clings to him like a frightened child.

For a while, the two of them are buried in each others’ arms. Refusing to acknowledge the people around them. Nowhere is safe anymore. One of their own is dead and they both blame themselves. Dani looked death in the eyes and Gil lost a kid.

”I couldn’t deal with it, Gil. I needed- I just- I needed something to make it easier. I couldn’t come here any other way. I wouldn't have been able to show my face and Bright deserves me here. I had to show up for him. One last time.” Dani looks over to where Bright is laid out in the front of the room. She attempts a smile but her face crumples instead.

”Dani, we’ll deal with this later okay? You’re allowed to grieve. I just need to know that you’re safe.” Gil rubs circles on Dani’s back.

”I have my sister staying with me. I didn't think I should be alone right now.” Dani drops her head into her hands.

Alone. Gil’s alone. Gil had people once. He had Jackie and Malcolm. But they’re both dead now. They didn’t leave him, he failed them. The both of them. The two people in his life that he cared about the most are gone and it’s his fault. Gil wishes he had someone to hold onto right now. Jessica would be out of her mind to even want Gil in her vicinity right now. When Jackie passed, Malcolm was there to patch things over. He stayed with Gil for nearly a whole month. Malcolm made sure that Gil had food, basic hygiene, hell Malcolm even urged Gil to quit drinking. Addiction was an early bonding point for Gil and Dani. The thought of Dani snaps Gil back to reality.

JT and Tally are waiting to pay respects to Malcolm, they’re right in line with where Gil and Dani are sitting. JT nods and Tally waves gently. JT would know what to do. Gil stands and makes his way to join the Tarmel’s. Tally squeezes his arm and Gil has to choke back a new wave of tears.

”Dani isn’t doing so hot.” Gil begins. “I’m going to have to speak later. When I do, can the two of you keep an eye on her? Keep her in this room. She can’t be alone.” Gil looks over at JT, who blinks knowingly. JT and Gil have helped Dani through a few relapses.

”You got it, Gil.” JT places his hand on Gil’s shoulder and removes it as soon as he feels Gil stiffen under him. That was how Gil would calm Bright down. Even just the movement itself is too jarring.

”Anything you or Dani needs, please let me know.” Tally’s eyes fill with tears. She’d only met Bright a few times, but it was enough to see how deep his bond was with the rest of her husband’s team.

”Thank you, Tally. Dani and I appreciate how kind you’ve been.” Gil smiles politely and turns around. As he slides back into his chair beside Dani, she throws him a look.

”I can take care of myself.” She says a little too harshly. She licks her teeth and pinches her nose. “I know you’re looking out for me. Thank you.” The words sound pained, but Gil knows that the pain isn’t his doing. Dani misses Bright. Gil can’t blame her.

A man steps to the front of the room. He’s dressed in a very professional dark grey suit. He must be one of the funeral directors. He takes a deep breath and pauses, waiting for the room to fall silent.

”On behalf of Jessica Whitly, I want to thank all of you for coming here tonight and spending this time to honor Malcolm Bright. Everyone here will greatly feel his loss. If you wouldn’t mind keeping your attention up here for a little while longer, Lieutenant Gil Arroyo of the NYPD will come forwards and say a few words about the deceased.” The man takes a step back. He pulls a packet of tissues out of his pocket and hands them to Gil once he takes his place to the left of Malcolm.

Gil’s hands shake as he pulls a piece of paper from his suit jacket pocket. It rustles loudly as he unfolds it. The paper is already dotted with tears, and Gil knows there will be many new ones by the time he is finished speaking. He looks around the room and sees everyone mourning. Colette and the other agents are huddled together. JT and Edrisa are holding Dani up. Even in the back stands Eve with her arms braced around herself. There’s many faces Gil can’t place. He takes a shaky breath and begins.

”Thank you everyone for being here. For those of you who do not know me, I am a friend of Malcolm’s. Malcolm Bright was in my life for a little over two decades, and I am beyond lucky to have been able to share those years with him. I met Malcolm when he was a young boy and instantly saw what a special person he was. Malcolm Bright was the most unselfish person I’ve ever met. And that’s how he died too.

Just one example of Malcolm’s endless love for others happened a few years back for my fiftieth birthday. Malcolm knew that my favorite movie is Dirty Harry. Malcolm surprised me by flying in from D.C. on the night of my birthday and gifted me the infamous .44 Magnum that’s used in the film. I couldn’t believe that the kid was there. He had field work early the next morning, but made a point to see me on my birthday. Everything was like that with Malcolm. Anything he could do to lighten someone’s load or brighten their day, he did. That’s how he got his name, Bright. Malcolm was a beacon of love and hope for everyone.

Forgive me, Jessica, if I’m overstepping, but I saw Malcolm as a son. I share the grief of the Whitly family as well as the rest of you here tonight. Malcolm-”

”I’d say you’re overstepping.”

Gil’s eyes widen in fear as Martin shrugs off his guards and stands up. Martin seethes at the fact that Gil would claim to be Malcolm’s father over him. Especially with Martin sitting right there in the front row.

”How _dare_ you think you were any sort of paternal figure to my son! You are nothing more than a sorry attempt to replace me. You’re the man who took me from my boy. The audacity to stand there and pretend to grieve like the rest of us. You know nothing about losing a child!” Martin staggers forward towards Gil, but Gil keeps his ground. Martin’s guards struggle to get him back into his seat.

”None of you know anything about losing a child! For those two decades that you had my son, Lieutenant, I lost him. I’ve mourned Malcolm Whitly every day since Gil Arroyo arrested me.” Martin spits Gil’s name at him like it’s a curse. The guards stop trying to get Martin to sit and instead pull him out of the room.

”Please get him out of here!” Jessica yells at the men. “I will not have my son disrespected like this. Martin if you were _truly_ Malcolm’s father and cared for him, you’d sit there and listen to Gil. He’s the only man who had a positive impact on Malcolm, and I’ll be damned before I let you insult either of them.” Jessica’s posture is rigid. She looks regal and deadly shouting from her chair at the front of the room.

Gil watches, horrified, as Martin is dragged from his son’s funeral. Jessica stoically stares ahead, refusing to draw more attention to herself. Ainsley clears her throat and looks pointedly at Gil. It’s his cue to carry on.

”Malcolm went looking for answers. Right until the very end, Malcolm put the needs of others before his own needs. That’s what I find most admirable about Malcolm: how much he cared for others. Despite all that Malcolm went through, he always made sure that everyone was treated with the kindness and the respect that they deserved. I’m always going to carry that part of Malcolm with me. I want to see the world through his eyes. A world where everyone deserves a second chance. That every human is more than whatever cards they were dealt.

Malcolm, I hope you know how much I love you, kid. How much we _all_ love you. The world will suffer without you in it. Malcolm changed the lives of so many people, mine included. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be here today. Kid, I’d give anything to switch places with you. Malcolm, you will be missed dearly. I already miss you. No words could possibly begin to describe the joy you brought to everyone’s lives. Rest easy, city boy, we’re going to carry out your hard work. There’s no such thing as “can’t be saved.” You taught us that, Malcolm. Thank you.”

Gil’s voice cracks. He stuffs the paper back into his pocket and feels it catch and tear on the fabric. It’s what sends Gil over the tipping point. Sobs rack through Gil’s chest. He shudders and gasps for air. It finally dawns on him that Malcolm is really gone. Gil nearly collapses under his anguish. He lets hands guide him back to his seat, the world around him swirling with tears. A pain shoots through his chest and Gil knows that it’s true heartbreak.

Gil sits there, staring at Malcolm inside his casket, trying to figure out why he was taken from them before his time. Taken from them while he was still so young. They say that when someone dies, their life replays before them. Going back through every moment that ever stuck with them, even from when they were little and didn't know how to talk. Gil doesn't know if what they say is true, a small part of him wishes it is, but if it is... what would Malcolm replay? What is the poor kid seeing? Were there any good moments in his life? Anything lovely worth replaying at all for Malcolm to appreciate? Or is Malcolm trapped by his own mind once again? Forced to relive all those horrible moments that tortured his every waking second. Malcolm's life was rarely happy. Malcolm had once described his mind as a movie theater that only played horror films, and it pains Gil to think that even death wouldn't be a reprieve for Malcolm.

The rest of the night is a blur. A few dozen people come up to Gil to tell him what a beautiful job he did. A handful tell him that he handled the Martin situation perfectly. Gil doesn’t really hear them. He doesn’t feel the hugs people give him, and he certainly doesn’t see the sad looks the rest of the Milton and Whitly families throw in his direction.

Both families cut ties with Jessica and the kids for obvious reasons, yet still envied Gil for his involvement in Malcolm’s life. Gil never paid them any mind. If they truly cared for the kids, they would’ve stuck around. Gil wanted to be there for Malcolm as well as Jessica and Ainsley. They are good people; they didn’t deserve what happened to them. Malcolm especially.

The room is quiet except for the few choked sobs that break the silence. Everyone in the room is crying. Gil can’t take any more. After Jackie, Gil had Malcolm to fall back on. Malcolm helped Gil get his feet back under him. Gil doesn’t have anyone like that now. Once he walks out of this room, he will never see Malcolm again. No one will ever be there for him again.

Gil stands. His tears blur his vision, and he bumps into countless legs as he pushes his way out of the row and towards the doors. He can’t be here any longer. He can’t look at Malcolm. The body in the front of the room is a reminder of Gil’s failure. A badge to remind Gil that he wasn’t there for Malcolm like he should’ve been. Gil doesn’t deserve to sit in that room and be sad like everyone else. It’s his fault Malcolm is there.

Dani calls after Gil. She’s begging him to stay. She could use a friend right now, but that’s where JT and Tally come in. They can do a better job than Gil ever could. She doesn’t need Gil. Shouldn’t want his help. Not after his latest lethal failure. No. Dani needs to let Gil go- he can’t be the strong and supportive man they all thought he was.

Gil takes one last look at the top of Malcolm’s head from the door. He wishes things had gone differently. He’d give anything to see Malcolm laying down in the guest bedroom, not that small box. With a deep sigh and a heavy heart, Gil turns his back on the room, turns his back on Malcolm, and heads home. Where he can be as alone as he feels.

Back in his house, Gil immediately heads for the liquor cabinet. He grabs the first bottle he lays his eyes on. He doesn’t care what it is he drinks, he just knows he needs to be drunk. He needed Malcolm to pull him out of this low when Jackie died, but there’s no one to help him now. Gil raises the bottle in a mock of a toast and swallows down as much as he can.

Gil moves to the living room and throws himself into his recliner. He doesn’t bother with taking off his dress clothes. There’s no need to because tomorrow he will just have to put them back on to bury Malcolm.

Gil’s barely eaten all day. The alcohol hits him a lot quicker than it normally does. He smiles despite himself. _At least one thing is going to plan_ , he thinks to himself. Twisting to put the bottle on the small table between the recliners, Gil’s suit jacket tightens and restricts the movement. He thrashes trying to break free of the invisible restraint, and the base of the bottle collides with the picture frame sitting on the table.

”Shit!” Gil yells. It feels as though everything in the universe is against him.

He places the bottle down the table like he meant to before and pushes up from the chair. He has to clean up the mess. He has to do one thing right. Gil knows that if he doesn’t clean it up now, it’ll just get pushed off until he is able to pull himself out of this low. Sliding the table out of the way, Gil crouches down and looks at the mess he made. Staring up at him between broken shards of glass is a picture of Gil, Malcolm, and Jackie. The picture was taken on the last vacation they took together out in the Hamptons. It was a perfect weekend and one of the last times Jackie was able to get out and enjoy herself.

”I miss you.” Gil whispers. He says it for Jackie, but it applies to Malcolm now too. “I wish you were here. You’d know what to do.”

Gil settles onto his knees and carefully uses his hand to push together the fragments of the broken frame. The fragments of his broken family. As he brushes the glass into a pile, the noise of it screams and fills the uncomfortable silence that dampened his house. It sounds like a memory coming back to haunt Gil. It sounds like broken dreams. It echoes the way Gil’s heart wails.

The shards in his hand are small enough that Gil can throw them out. On his way back from the kitchen, Gil takes a long, hard look at his living room. His house is nice, perfect for him and Jackie and the nights Malcolm stayed over, but now it’s too big. It’s a constant reminder of all the joy that radiated from her. Now the house is full of grief. It looms over Gil like a hand-me-down jacket that he will never grow into. A reminder of how empty he feels.

”I should move.” Gil announces. A change in scenery would be good for him. He can be closer to work, force himself to meet new neighbors, and get involved in a new community. But Gil can’t bear to leave. To leave behind the place where he and Jackie spent their lives. Where Malcolm said his first words after the arrest. Where the three of them were their own happy family. No longer, though.

Hanging over the fireplace is an ornate mantle. It’s crowded with awards, photographs, a few fake plants, and the Magnum that Gil had mentioned earlier in the night. A horrible idea enters Gil’s mind and he can’t quite seem to shake it. The thought of it sends shivers down his spine. He begins to cry. Gil shouldn’t be having this thought, he shouldn’t even be entertaining it. Maybe it’s the grief, maybe it’s the liquor, maybe it’s the fact that Gil has been blaming himself all along. Either way, the thought planted its seeds in Gil’s head, and the longer he stands there staring at the gun, the deeper the roots take hold.

”I’m so sorry.” Gil imagines that Jackie and Malcolm are in the room with him. He walks towards the mantle and pauses to look around the room. “I’ll be with you very soon.”

The gun is large and powerful. Gil knows that it is going to be a mess, but he made a mess of things with Malcolm. Malcolm died in agony; Gil should be thankful he doesn’t have to suffer the same fate.

Gil falls into his recliner for the last time. He straightens his tie and fixes the collar on his jacket, not that it will matter much. Still, Gil wants to look his best.

The voice in his head screams at him. Begs Gil to think for a moment. There’s people relying on him. Dani, JT, and Edrisa would be heartbroken to lose two friends, one right after another. Jessica would need someone to rely on. Gil blows air out through his mouth and clenches his fist tighter around the gun. Nothing he can tell himself will make him change his mind. The thought of a painless world where he can be with Jackie and Malcolm is too good to be true, but a promise of paradise is better than the guarantee of grief.

Gil’s hand shakes as he loads the gun. He laughs wryly, thinking of Malcolm. It’s only fitting that Gil’s hand shakes like Malcolm’s while holding the gun he bought for him. On the table next to Gil is the picture that he broke and the bottle that gave him the courage to do this. He doesn’t need to say anything else, he said all he needed to in his eulogy, and there’s enough information scattered around the living room. Gil just prays that the team won’t have to see this.

Turning the gun on himself, Gil feels his pulse kick up. He’s been on the wrong side of a gun many times before, but never his own. Never one that was given to him out of love. Gil steels himself and sighs, pushing any remaining doubt from his body. The barrel centered perfectly on his chest.

”I’m so sorry.” Tears cascade from Gil’s eyes. They’re hot tears that only come from true pain.

”I love you.” Gil says to the picture lying flat on the table.

He closes his eyes. The image of the three of them smiling together burns into his mind. He can still see the photo. Gil squeezes his eyes harder. He can feel the sun on his face, the way the wind whips around the three of them. He can hear Jackie’s hearty laugh and the smell of the salt water. Gil hears Malcolm call his name. An attempt to get him into the water. Gil cries harder. He misses them. His life is meaningless without them.

Gil’s face twists in pain, but through it all he smiles. Gil will see them again. He’s sure of it. Gil thought he did everything he could to get to Malcolm before. Thought that he could find Malcolm before John killed him, but he didn’t. Now, Gil has the opportunity to be reunited with Malcolm forever and he’s not going to fail Malcolm this time. Gil inhales sharply and exhales with a shaky breath.

He pulls the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and getting this far!!! This fic was difficult for me to write but I'm glad I was able to do it. I hope you enjoyed it, if that's possible lol.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, Agony holds a lot of emotional value for me. This started out as a vent fic that I was using to cope with an illness in my family, but it quickly turned into "how sad can i make this".
> 
> If this is your cup of tea (hold the ketamine) you can find more trashy content on the [pson trash server](https://discord.gg/v3Q8VdK).


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